


An Open Window

by ADevilsHunger (Dream_tempo)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Beards (Facial Hair), Body Hair, Body Worship, Come Eating, Come Marking, Comeplay, Consensual Somnophilia, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Fingerfucking, Foreskin Play, Hair Kink, M/M, Man stink, Scent Kink, Somnophilia, Sweat, Watersports, piss drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 19:57:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dream_tempo/pseuds/ADevilsHunger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s tempting, sometimes, to tell. When he catches Stiles looking at his ass, or when he lets his own touch slide a little too possessively, he finds himself want to come up behind the boy—cage him in and whisper in his ear. He wants Stiles’ to feel his chest pressing into him when he says that he knows the taste of his cock and the tang of his piss and the musk of his hole and the salt of his come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Open Window

**Author's Note:**

> More of my tumblr prompts! I'm hoping to get these out more regularly now that I'm done with the semester. ^^  
> 

Stiles always leaves his window open—presumably to cool the room or air out the teenaged stink, but Derek knows that’s not the case, even if it’s an unconscious decision. Because the boy doesn’t show any outward sign of knowing, doesn’t act any different around Derek or come asking questions or making requests. Maybe his gaze lingers a little longer than he used to let it, maybe he hangs back from the rest of the others after pack meetings, maybe he takes more of an awareness in Derek’s interests, but that doesn’t belie anything more than a curiosity—a question in his head that he doesn’t have the answer to.

It’s tempting, sometimes, to tell. When he catches Stiles looking at his ass, or when he lets his own touch slide a little too possessively, he finds himself want to come up behind the boy—cage him in and whisper in his ear. He wants Stiles’ to feel his chest pressing into him when he says that he knows the taste of his cock and the tang of his piss and the musk of his hole and the salt of his come. He fantasizes about it sometimes, when Stiles is standing in his kitchen and chatting with Isaac. He thinks about how he’sd wrap his hands around that slender waist and dig his fingers into that unkempt bush and breathe hotly in his ear, because he knows how much Stiles likes that sort of tickling, teasing sensation.

But he can’t let go of what he has, not yet, and so he keeps it to himself. His midnight runs almost seem like his own, surreal fever-dreams—backlit by the silvery moon and made heavy with the summer humidity. Derek wouldn’t really believe any of it happened if he didn’t wake up in the mornings with the stale taste of ass on his tongue, stray pubes in his beard, and the scent of Stiles heavy in his nose. He doesn’t remember the first time, probably because he tried to tell himself that it was just some lustful wish fulfillment, but once he’d admitted it to himself, he’s kept careful logs of every instance—of every sensation.

Because he can feel it coming to a head, knows that Stiles is too smart to not notice, to not be putting together the bits and pieces that have floated to the surface of his mind. Derek’s not sure he’ll still be wanted after it all coalesces, so he needs to have these, needs to make sure that it won’t just fade into the back of his mind as one more regret. Tonight he cuts his run short—just too eager for it—jogging with a chub bouncing against his stomach uncomfortable and irritating.

He can’t even be bothered with the pretense anymore—runs naked through the forest just long enough for his hair to mat to his forehead with sweat and for the muscles in his thighs to start to tingle—before making a sharp turn and heading for the Stilinski’s. Just like every night, Stiles’ window is open, and Derek stands beneath it for a moment to catch the lethargic beat of his heart and the wafting pungency of teenage boy. His cock stirs to full attention and he can’t keep himself from scratching blunt nails through his chest hair, pinching his stiff nipples, clenching his toes in the cool grass and breathing it all in with his mouth open.

When he starts to feel precum gather in his foreskin and his balls twitch against the inside of his thighs, he finally launches himself up to the roof—swinging off the gutter and onto the shingles with deft movements before crouching and bending himself practically in half to get through the propped window quietly. Once his feet his dry carpet, he’s smacked full in the face with Stiles’ unique, yet utterly familiar odor. There’s no getting around the stink of a teenaged boy—he’s smelled it before in Scott’s, Jackson’s rooms before—but the specific notes are always a unique amalgamation.

Scott’s room is the usual dirt, snails, and puppy dog tails assumption—his cleats caked with mud, dirty plates with half-eaten food left on his desk, his own wet dog scent (which Derek will never admit to Stiles actually comes from being a werewolf), recent and past farts, and semen in the sheets. Jackson’s was covered with a whole layer of spicy colognes, hair products, and manufactured “fresh linen” scents, but beneath was the copper of blood, stale beer spilled on a jacket, a joint in the back pocket of his jeans, the concentrated acidity of a cum rag with dozens of old loads hidden somewhere near the bed.

For Stiles it’s sweat, but with the sickly bite of nerves, layered again and again through the unwashed sheets. Dirty shoes that had pungent feet sweating through the soles, threadbare boxers that have skidmarks from middle school years, spilled coke and stale candy. Cum. Cum at his desk, cum in his closet, cum wafting from the bathroom and deep in the bed. Derek shudders and closes his eyes, breathing deep and pulling at his ballsack, long and languid.

His fingers roam across his body as he watches Stiles sleep, tossing and turning beneath the comforter, rubbing into the bundle of nerves behind his balls and tugging gently at the ample hair he’s let grow unfettered. He can tell that Stiles’ body hasn’t seen a razor anywhere beneath his neck, and it inspired a similar wildness in him. Seeing the dark whorls of hair against those pale thighs, having to lick past a wispy beard to get to his firm rosebud, burying his nose in an explosion of pubes while taking that peachy cock into his throat and running his fingers through the fur on his soft belly was enough to make him cum untouched before, and he often wondered if Stiles would appreciate the same thing.

Derek can’t keep himself from imagining the boy waking up— getting caught, and hurriedly sitting on his face, smothering his surprised cries with his musky, sweaty ass and making the boy suffocate on it. He strokes himself roughly as he imagines those large hands slapping at his sides as the lithe body bucks beneath him and the muffled, frustrated words just vibrate against his feverish, fetid rim, until they turn to moans and the teeth transition to tongue and he can afford to lean forward and let that upturned nose burst from his hairy crack and breathe. It’s a dangerous fantasy, and one he shouldn’t entertain, because he gets caught up in the moment and the idea and gets sloppy.

He shakes his head to let it go before stalking across the room and digging his fingers into the bottom of the blankets, rolling them in his hands a little to appreciate the action before lifting them and crawling underneath. He takes a moment to cup one of Stiles’ large feet, flat and a little pigeon-toed with coarse hair on the top and unevenly cut nails, running his fingers along the sensitive underside and suckling the toes. He didn’t wear socks today, but he also didn’t have lacrosse practice, so the sweat is mostly clean and salty and Derek can’t help but hunch his body so he can rub his aching dick against the intimation of an arch, holding it steady against his crotch as he fucks the smooth skin.

Keeping it in place with clenched thighs, he kisses his way up defined calves, licks at the moist, ticklish joint of his knee, drags inhumanly sharp teeth along the inside of his thighs, and then buries his face in the cacophony of his crotch, just twelve hours shy of putrid. He breathes, open-mouthed, against Stiles’ taint and roots his nose against the peach-fuzz fur of his balls, whining low and soft when he feels the delicate flesh of his cockhead tackily drag against his forehead.

Derek keeps fucking against his foot and he cranes his neck to lick and bite the creases of his hips and rub his cheeks against his pubes, leaning up to suckle at his pliant navel and running shaking hands gently over the sides of his ass. Stiles stirs, but only to burrow his head against his pillows, and let his legs fall open—muscle memory having conditioned him for this. Derek whimpers at the insinuation of it and licks his lips before tenderly kissing the small cock starting to plump up beneath his ministrations.

Derek found himself contented on a primal level when the found the young boy to be uncut, just like him, and has cum more than a few times on the thought of docking their cocks, overlapping their loose skin and fucking each other in the humid channel until it swells with cum and eventually the connection slips away—too full to keep gripping them together. For now he just kisses the swollen head peeking out the freckled skin, a little disproportionately large for the shaft, but the perfect button shape.

Pursing his wet lips around the flesh, he lets his tongue slide deftly beneath the skin to tease at the ridges, the cleft, the slit—sighing in contentment when it spurts softly against his palette and the mellow bitter of it makes him salivate. Instead of letting it stir and rise slowly, he suckles and laves at the flesh, whimpering when Stiles’ brows furrow and he starts to wriggle. He can feel the boy tense beneath him, can feel his glans twitch with the second-hand effort to contain himself, but he’s been working weeks at retraining his instincts, or rather returning them to their more ignorant state.

Needing just a little more to usher the response he wants, Derek moves one of his hands over Stiles’ quivering belly, petting him softly and pulling off long enough to rub his beard against the sensitive skin of his thighs and suck on his soft balls before whispering, “Shh… it’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” He moves back to suckle as his fingers drift down to Stiles’ pelvis and push tenderly into the muscles, putting that much more pressure on his young bladder and Stiles whines, face contorting before Derek gives a long, sucking pull, and finally a small trickle of piss runs out his slit and Derek laps at it eagerly. The tension ratchets up for just a moment after the first spill—body conditioned to winch off the flow, waiting for the uncomfortable scratchy warmth of having pissed the bed—but when he gets nothing but Derek’s eager suckles in return, it relaxes again.

The stream increases slowly, but steadily—never with enough force to hit the back of his throat, but roaming all along the length of his tongue as Derek’s eyes roll back in his head and he ditches Stiles’ foot to rut against the bed, reveling in the sharp cut of urine through his senses. Much too rough for his own good, he grabs Stiles’ hips and yanks him down the bed to take the boy into his throat and try to gag on the hot, wet dick filling him up.

Stiles wakes with a start, but Derek doesn’t have the mind to comprehend just what it means, bobbing greedily on his rapidly hardening erection and pulling at his balls—no longer able to keep himself from being careful. The boy stiffens as his eyes flutter open—crusty boogers still clinging to his lashes— but a wanton moan falls from his open lips and within moments his hips are jittering forward to fuck himself further into Derek’s throat. Those long, slim fingers twitch just in the corner of his eye, and his stomach drops at the thought of them pushing him away, but after several long beats, they thread through his hair and _tug_ and Derek whimpers as he cums all over Stiles’ sheets.

Feeling utterly animal and knowing he just got his permission, he fucks right through his orgasm, making a mess of his crotch and stomach, working his own semen deep and filthy into his own body hair and forcing his over-sensitive dick to stay hard as Stiles holds his head still and starts ramming into him, heels coming up to dig into his back so he can curl infinitesimally closer— ass lifting off the sheets with the force of his thrusts. Derek just opens his throat and kneads at the globes still round with baby fat instead of muscle, wrenching them apart with his fingers to expose that quivering ring of muscle.

“I knew it—I fucking knew it!” Stiles whispers as he suffocates Derek on his cock, much the same way Derek had imagined doing with his ass, and he groans as whorishly as he can muster, letting the boy know how desperate and greedy he is. “It was too real to be a dream. You left beard burn on my asshole you mangy bastard.” Derek shudders at the thought of Stiles discovering that in the morning—rubbing his fingers over the little, red bumps—feeling how loose and wet his hole was and just knowing in his heart that it was Derek that did it.

Stiles’ thrusts are starting to grow jerky and uncoordinated—only half going down Derek’s throat while most hit the roof of his mouth or slide into the pocket of his cheek—and Derek starts pushing fingers against his dry rim to encourage his orgasm, lifting his torso completely off the bed. His mouth keeps running as he gets closer—out of his mind with the overwhelming urge of their fucking.

“What a dirty bitch—climbing into my bed, eating me out, swallowing my jizz, drinking my piss. You get off on fucking little boys, huh? Like getting me off with my dad in the room, like smelling it on me the next day—probably watched me touch myself afterwards, getting off on the smell of you in the sheets. Bet the pack could still smell my piss on your tongue, bet you didn’t even wash after you, animal.” Derek growls as he keeps going, but can feel his own balls drawing tight again as Stiles’ slap against his chin. “Did you beat yourself off over me? Did you mix your cum with mine so I wouldn’t notice or did you lick it up when you were done?” Smart fucking kid—Derek’s done both, and the idea that Stiles was at least half aware of it happening, getting off on the notion—

Derek reaches up to pinch one of those pert, rosy nipples with one hand while the other works into Stiles’ ass and then they’re both tumbling over the edge—Derek soiling the bedding beneath Stiles’ back again and Stiles coating his mouth and throat with thick, viscous coats of his jizz, drowning out the sharp aftertaste of the piss from before. Derek whimpers as they slowly collapse against each other—wrecked scents intermingling and making a grotesque, gorgeous perfume out of their mating—but doesn’t let Stiles’ cock slip out of his mouth, nursing the flaccid length.

The boy’s hands brush his hair away from his temples and stroke his cheeks as their breathing slows into a drowsy rhythm. “Good boy,” Stiles whispers softly, and Derek wriggles beneath the praise—embarrassed and pleased. “God, that was—you are—make me feel amazing.” Derek falls asleep before the boy can say much else, but leaves before the sun comes up. He spends the rest of the day holed up in his loft, ignoring his uncle and his phone.

At night he goes for a run—clothed— to clear his head and tire himself enough to sleep without dreams. But trying not to think means he unconsciously winds up in front of the Stilinski’s old colonial again. Unable to keep himself from wanting, he looks up to Stiles’ room.

The window is open. 

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [FiccinDylan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FiccinDylan/pseuds/FiccinDylan) for beta'ing this for me and for just being the sweetest person and encouraging all my terrible, filthy pursuits.


End file.
